


Wishing You'd Dreamt Me

by Kiyaar



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Betrayal, Bondage, Established Relationship, Gags, Guilt, M/M, Messy Power Dynamics, Mindwipe, PWP, Secrets, hickmanvengers, incursions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/pseuds/Kiyaar
Summary: Steve keeps enforcing his own silence, keeps parcelling himself up to give to Tony, for Tony's enjoyment at Steve’s expense. Keeps writing blank emotional checks.





	Wishing You'd Dreamt Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is for iwanttogothere, who wanted betrayal.

Tony has realized that it is far easier to lie when Steve is gagged, so it's become a constant in their rotation. 

Steve has begged for it in the past, so when Tony brings it out and Steve sees a doting partner, a considerate lover, his own pleasure the focus. There is a sacred moment when Steve goes still, after Tony has buckled the contraption around his head, when he settles and his energy stills and he stops carrying the weight of the world for a little while. 

Even Steve’s feet are meaty and broad. Tony trails a finger over the bottom of his foot and he can see the determination radiate out from Steve’s heaving chest, one group of muscles at a time exercising exquisite restraint, Steve resolutely avoiding even a glance at Tony’s face. He doesn’t move enough even to make the chains clink. 

Tony’s palm starts to heat. 

He's wearing gloves tonight, fingerless and leather, more for Steve than for Tony. They help Steve go under, he claims; they evoke a time when he was brutal and adrift and alone and he would have done anything to have this. 

They help Tony conceal the glow of the alarm that means Steve is no longer the center of his universe. 

Tony slaps him, backhanded, and Steve does it again, whatever the opposite of progressive muscle relaxation is, tenses himself one group at a time, locks down his pleasure. 

“Don’t do that,” Tony murmurs. “No secrets here.” 

It comes so readily. Steve is so easy to lie to. 

Steve’s not even looking, he has his eyes shut and his eyelashes cast shadow over his cheeks and his mouth hangs open in an animal pant-moan. He keeps licking his lips. Steve keeps enforcing his own silence and quiet and dark. Keeps parcelling himself up to give to Tony, for Tony's enjoyment at Steve's expense. Keeps writing blank emotional checks. 

Tony wants to hurt him. Wants to lash at him for all the things he’s not allowed to say in words anymore. He knows Steve wouldn’t object, but that’s not his mission tonight. The object is tenderness and he’s been failing since they started. Deception precludes tenderness. If he were better to both of them, he’d lie properly. He’d disentangle Steve and bring them both up on the bed and caress the broad planes of Steve’s body and he would lie as a normal person does: _I’m not feeling well_ or _it wouldn’t be fair to you, Winghead_, or _this is too much for me_ and they would lie there and kiss and Steve would understand because Steve always understands. 

Swift anger rises in Tony. He crosses the room in a single stride, snatches the blindfold off the bed, winds it around Steve’s head. He puts the little ball in Steve’s hand, presses his fingers around it. Undoes the gag, just for a moment, coaxes it from Steve’s jaw, puts a hand over Steve’s mouth. “Yes or no,” Tony says. 

Steve swallows, once, twice, three times. “I don’t know the parameters.” 

“You don’t get to know them,” Tony tells him. “Yes or no.” 

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes.” 

Steve's trust rankles him. Why don't you tell me no, he thinks, and he imagines this night ending with a crop, a switch, something, in his hand, and Steve - Steve, strung out and bleeding and wanting more than he should trust Tony to give, the lax shape of his plush mouth - 

Tony, Steve is saying, low and desperate and shameless, something Tony imagines he reserves for his real lovers. His permanent ones. The ones he trusts. Steve juts his hips up like he's trying to hump air. "Please," he says, "please, _please_, _oh_, I need more, touch me, talk to me, please –"

Tony presses the hand without the incursion alarm over Steve's mouth. "No talking," Tony cautions, "lay back," Tony says, and Steve clutches that fucking ball and presses his mouth shut because Steve isn't sloppy like Tony, doesn't mix up his imperatives or his priorities, Steve is _present_ and trustworthy and noble and it's why there's a hole in his episodic memory. 

The signal in his palm is pulsing, now. He's not attending to the incursion. 

Tony lays him back, lowers him more slowly than is required for what Steve is. Steve loves this, loves going limp, loves being arranged and not asked about it. He’s very hard, very wet, glistening with arousal, jerking every time Tony puts his hands on him. 

Tony props his knees up. Climbs astride the saddle Steve's hips make. Eases himself onto Steve, lets gravity pull their bodies together, closes his eyes and focuses on the sound of Steve's noises, the sound he makes whenever Tony clenches around him, the sound he makes when Tony digs his fingertips into Steve's biceps and leans over him close enough to feel his chest heaving against Tony's own. 

He is so close to oblivion like this. Steve gets him as close to peace as he's likely to feel in this lifetime. It's just harder, now. Tony's poisoned their little well. He has to work harder to lose himself. He grinds down. He presses himself into Steve's flesh, wants to feel every inch of him, wants the heat, wants to live here forever - 

Tony drags himself back to the surface, to earth. He compensates by scratching down Steve's chest. 

"Take the gloves off," Steve is saying, "oh, just, _Tony_, touch me, please, I want to feel you, ungh, _god, Tony -"_

His palm is still hot and they aren't dead yet and he wonders how many times they're going to do this, how much would he rather die than be honest, why is he _like _this - 

"No," Tony says, and uses him for just a little longer. 

Tony uses his normal hand to slide the gag back into Steve's mouth. He holds it there against Steve's lips with one finger and Steve moans something bright and shameless. Tony feels it when Steve comes, feels him go rigid and taut, carefully drapes his fingertips - but not his palm - against Steve's abs just to feel every minute contraction while he takes his own pleasure. 

He almost says it. I love you. Forgive me. _I'm using you._

The split-second of relief that follows Tony's orgasm is hollow. The clock starts again. The lies come back. Everything comes back. 

"I love you," Steve tells him. 

**Author's Note:**

> • Thank you for reading!  
• I treasure any and all comments.  
• I am kiyaar on [tumblr](http://kiyaar.tumblr.com) and besafesteve on [twitter](http://twitter.com/besafesteve).  
• If you enjoyed this, please consider [reblogging.](https://kiyaar.tumblr.com/post/187809763508/fic-3-smuts-of-varying-angst)


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